Sixteen Tons

 

Sixteen Tons

Mid-twentieth-century Northport, Long Island, was a melting pot of souls, a “family of sorts”. As “yutes” (think “My Cousin, Vinny”) when we weren’t getting into mischief, we were scratching to earn a few dollars to support our spending habits. It was a time when folks accepted young child labor as the norm and no one complained or cried about it.

We lived at #114 Bayview, next door to Ebie and Eddy Mulenhaupt and in the house beyond that was Mrs. Rixon, Ebie’s aging mother who was fraught with diabetes and severe disabilities. Her home was heated with coal, quite common before fuel oil became the new technology. Coal heat was dirty and cumbersome, requiring a nightly ritual called “banking” which was the process of redistributing the coal in the firebox about an hour before going to bed in order to keep the house warm throughout the night. The movie “Christmas Story” illustrated this chore rather well. As a very small child, I can remember my father “banking” our own furnace and spreading the rough coal ashes on our driveway for traction when it snowed. Back then, coal was brought in via dump truck delivering those black dusty chunks to a coal bin located in the cellar. I can still hear the clatter of the coal chute in my “minds ear”.

Widowed and frail, old Mrs. Rixon relied on me to haul her heavy coal twice weekly. The year was 1956, I was just ten and the song, Sixteen Tons dominated the airways, so much so that I knew all the lyrics.

My experience in Mrs. Rixon’s coal bin was dark, dirty and dusty. There was no electric lighting so I used a flashlight to see well enough for shoveling coal into those buckets. I would then carry them to a place alongside the furnace in another part of the cellar. At the close of each coal shoveling event, my nostrils were black from breathing in the coal dust and Mrs. Rixon gave me a Princely thirty-five cents and a Mounds candy bar, valued at ten cents. Today (in 2026) that same Mounds candy bar retails for about $2.50 at Walmart, representing 2500% inflation, a number that staggers the mind.

A whole lifetime has now passed so quickly and, seventy years later here I am at 80. Probably older now than Mrs. Rixon was then, this sobering thought gives me pause. Considering the cost of a Mounds candy bar that continues to rise with the economic tide, I’m reminded of those song lyrics from so long ago. “St. Peter don’t you call me cause I can’t go…...I owe my soul to the company store”. Good night Mrs. Rixon, wherever you are.

 

Last Exit

In my mother’s last years on earth, suffering from blindness and frustration she would often exclaim “thank God I’m in the exit lane”. She was referring to her oncoming demise. Since then, a full generation of years has passed and we are all now in the same exit lane. Sadly, we have lost many of our contemporaries in recent years and the death toll continues to climb.

Recently, I was heartbroken by the news that a friend from the old school, Pat Kopke Dowd had passed away. I first met her in 1957 while attending “7J” at the Laurel Avenue Jr. High School, Northport, NY. Her future husband, Dan would also be a new acquaintance that year and the two of them would become my lifelong friends.

After high school, we drifted apart except for a brief time when they got married in 1967 and the Viet Nam war interrupted. In the years that passed I often wondered what happened to Dan & Pat. When we reconnected at the 30^th year reunion of our 1963 Northport High School graduating class, the years melted away quickly. We visited many times, thereafter, re-cementing a relationship that began in those “Happy Days”

When I had a stroke in 2007, among others from the old school, it was Dan & Pat that came to my aid when I returned home from a rehab hospital in Jacksonville. It was they who fed my dogs, stocked my pantry and cleaned my home. They offered moral support and ferried me to additional hospitals and doctor's visits. They never asked if they could be of assistance, they just did it.

Without a doubt, Pat has secured herself preferred seating in Heaven through her selfless acts on earth, not just because of what she did for me, but because of who she was. Her giving spirit has touched the lives of so many. But, alas, she has now taken that final off ramp, Exit 52 N, to Northport, the magic place that helped to mold who we are and what we have become. May her beautiful spirit live peacefully and eternally in the heavens above our little hometown village, hidden deep in the valley, beneath the pine trees, half forlorn.

 Easter

Easter of old conjures up images of early childhood development. Mom always said “eggs are the time for Easter and Easter is the time for eggs”. We just accepted that without question, after all, we always got Easter baskets with candy eggs nested in lovely faux grass. The song still rings in my head; “Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail”. Oh, the time we had as kids. Easter egg hunts in the Northport Park, finding them around the bandstand, in the bushes, under the bushes and in the grass. It was a day we looked forward to every year. The Easter basket routine continued in our family well into our teens, with voluminous amounts of candy which I’m sure helped keep our local dentist, Dr. Lazarus in business.

But why are eggs connected to Easter, the religious observance considered by many to be the celebration of Jesus Christ, resurrected from the dead. It’s a question that has consumed a lifetime of contemplation; after all, if Mom & Dad sanctioned it, surely it must be valid. Or maybe not. A little research on Google leads me to understand that eggs are a symbol of fertility and therefore symbolize the resurrection of Jesus Christ. And bunnies, everyone knows are a huge symbol of fertility. I guess if you stretch your imagination far enough, you can connect anything to anything.

I’m now considering the evolution of rhetoric. When someone doesn’t want to acknowledge another’s point of view, they deflect with shielded statements of rhetoric. A popular retort is “that’s fake news”. As I remember, when my uncle no longer wanted to hear my thoughts, he said “eat your eggs, Julius”. In other words, “end of conversation”. When my father was unconvinced by my presentation he said “what’s that got to do with the price of eggs?” As a child, when my older brother goaded me, my parents said “stop egging him on”. Highly intelligent people were said to be “eggheads”. A well-respected person was a “good egg”. A pattern seems to be forming here. Consider that eggs have less to do with Easter and more to do with the fascination of eggs. That being said, I am left with the question of why. This may well be one of the great unsolved mysteries of the universe.

One of my mother’s favorite limericks goes: Willie died at the breakfast table from eating more than he was able. Up spoke his sister, Meg….may I have his other egg? Let me know when you solve this one! Happy Easter.

 

Room 10

It was 1957, I was eleven years old and making the transition from Ocean Avenue grade school to junior high school. Dad warned me about how life might change for me with the influx of “street savvy” kids from East Northport's Larkfield School who would become my classmates. Along with my peers from Ocean Avenue School we would now assimilate. I was accustomed to the naivety of grades K through 6 and now, I would receive an education in becoming more worldly by the streetwise kids at Laurel Avenue Junior High. Some of those kids had repeated several grades and were quite a bit older. I was 11 and had a lot to learn.

Ground zero was Room 10, at the north end of the building which doubled as a school lunchroom.  It defined our “homeroom” as class 7J. This was where we assembled each morning before our daily trek from room to room throughout the building to attend various different subjects with different teachers. Our homeroom teacher was Miss Reuben who married during our tenure and became Mrs. Rosenthal. Always carrying a facial tissue, I’m not sure if she had acute allergies or if she was just a sad person. I would guess the latter. She was also our math teacher during 7^th and 8^th grade introducing us to the practical use of numbers such as bill paying, bank interest, check book balancing, etc. One of the guys in our crowd somehow procured the teachers edition of the math book that contained all the lesson answers and for two years, we copied our math “homework” in the mornings right there in Room 10. What math prodgies we were! Amazingly, Miss Reuben never caught on.

In the early days of junior high, for a dime each, my buddy and I took the town bus to school, since the district didn’t provide bus service for everyone. Arriving about half an hour early, the bus schedule created a waiting for school to open. During the fall, we played catch on the front lawn with a “Pluto Platter” which has since evolved into the familiar “Frisbee”. As the weather turned colder, this activity lost its' luster and we soon sought access to the heated building. The north doors were always unlocked, so we just walked in and sat on the corridor floor in front of Room 10 with our backs against the lockers.

In time, that got boring and we noticed that the lock on the Room 10 door was a “skeleton lock”. We reasoned that if we had a skeleton key, we could open up the room and wait in relative comfort. I then visited Northport Hardware and purchased three skeleton keys of different configurations, one of which fit the lock. Voila! We were in. Eraser fights, a broken window and tossing blackboard erasers into the inverted cone overhead lights prompted disciplinary proceedings by the school principal, Big Ed Twining. The eraser in the light smoldered, the window was broken and "Big Ed" was displeased. The discipline?   I really can't remember as they all seemed to run together. Miss Reuben stated in the aftermath of our shenanigans, that she thought the janitor was opening the room each morning.

Room 10 had other attractions since it doubled as the lunchroom. In one corner was a chest freezer where they stored ice cream and other frozen food items. Our small group of hooligans hatched a plan to launch “the great ice cream heist”. We figured out how to defeat the lock on the freezer and decided that we would make this heist on the last day of 7^th grade, as our swansong. As June approached, school would soon let out. The temperature rose and this plan seemed impractical as all the ice cream would melt. We decided to abort our mission and it may well be the greatest caper we never made.

Those days are long gone, but the memory of who we were and what we did brings a little warm chuckle to the surface. Some of the kids from that class remain friends that I am still in contact with today, now sixty-five years later. We’ve all gone our own ways, visited every part of the globe and reunited in the new millennium. In 1957 it would have been hard to imagine the scenario of “sixty-five hears later”. But here we are, the train of life is still in motion, although when we arrive at our destination, sadly, most of us will need help to the platform and some of us will have already gotten off.   

Ode to Pete Young

 Ode to Pete Young

It's hard to believe that Pete is gone. Before I am gone myself, want to make a tribute to my old friend, Pete Young……..

I met Pete through a group of friends that frequented Seymour’s Boat Yard, around 1961 or so. Pete’s dad, John Young was a one-time dock manager at Seymour’s and had left to open the Harbor Marine Sports Store at the corner of Bayview Ave. and Main St. He was a good friend to all of us no-counts who regularly gathered at his store for a visit. He allowed us to call him “John” and to we 15 year olds, it was validation that we were adults (even though we weren’t). The players in this group were Pete, Myself, Jimmy Ball and Jamie Quinn. At the time, we each had our own powerboats and Pete (or Yuk as we called him) was no exception. We painted them all the same color (light blue with white trim) and Pete applied his artistic hand on the sides of our boats with our club name, “The Cavitators”. Cavitation is a phenomenon in which rapid changes of pressure in a liquid lead to the formation of small vapor-filled cavities, in places where the pressure is relatively low. When subjected to higher pressure, these cavities, called "bubbles" or "voids", collapse and can generate an intense shock wave. In our case, the voids occurred around the propeller which caused the engine to rev significantly. Making your outboard engine cavitate was the marine equivalent of hot rodders “leaving rubber” on the streets. We generally tore up the water ways, much to the chagrin of Dexter Seymour, Jamie’s grandfather who owned Seymour’s Boat Yard and ironically, was the Harbormaster.

The following year, 1962 ushered in a new era of hooligan behavior when Jamie became the first in our group to be accepted by the DMV licensing division and we all took to the road in Jamie’s hot rod ‘48 Ford truck. The four of us piled into that old pickup truck like sardines and boldly careened around Northport and East Northport hurling cat calls at the fair sex on the sidewalks and generally making fools of ourselves the way young punks do. I remember one time, Jamie threw me the keys to the truck and said “hey Bruyn, take the truck for a spin”. The fact that I had no license was of little importance to me, so Pete and I got in the truck and took off on a joy ride. On return, coming down the steep hill of Lewis Road became a wild adventure when I applied the brake and my foot fell to the floor. I knew enough to downshift so I did, managing to slow down to about 30 miles per hour but as we approached the bottom of the hill, I realized this was going to be a white-knuckle turn. Somehow, we made it onto Bayview and luckily, no traffic was coming. I parked the truck at Seymour’s and gave Quinn his keys back. Jamie said “you dumb-ass, you should have pumped the fuckin’ brakes”. Like so many things in life, hindsight is 20/20.

By early in 1963, I passed my road test (after three tries) and became a legal driver. My first car would soon follow, a ‘56 Chevy with all the cool stuff which blinded me to the fact that it was a major oil burner, exactly what my dad told me to avoid when buying a car. So, at age 17, it seemed to me that performing a ring job would be an easy enough thing to do. But where? We lived in an apartment. Pete was happy to volunteer his dad’s garage for the operation. I had no mechanical experience but not to worry, Pete would be our guide! His dad, John had a different view. He didn’t mind letting me use the garage, but he told me Pete was only good at disassembling cars; in other words, he was a “junk man”. Undaunted we set out to do this over the Easter vacation of 1963 which was about two weeks and as it turned out, we needed all of it. I borrowed some specialty tools from the auto shop teacher, Mr. Phillips and we spent every minute of every day working on this car. Pete’s dad (John Young) would come home from work each day and just shake his head. I can still recall some of the music on our shop radio. Andy Williams “Can't Get Used to Losing You” and the Chiffons “He’s So Fine”. After two weeks of dawn to dusk dedication, we finally were victorious and all of Pete’s Hot Rod Magazine education paid off. I would have many hours of “happy motoring” until a larger engine caught my interest, but that is another story.

Then there was the famous (or infamous) camping trip at Colonial Sand and Gravel, a dredging site the north side of the Asharoken isthmus. In those days, camping certainly did not mean camping; it was a euphemism for a “drink-out” and we were onboard. This particular “camping trip” started downtown on Main St. where we found someone old enough who was willing to buy us beer……..a case of it. The plan was simple; just carry the beer by foot down to Colonial Sand and Gravel, a laborious trek by any measure. We chose the route as “the crow flies” which took us across Steers Sand Pit, over hill and over dale. A case of beer gets pretty heavy after awhile so we passed the load back and forth. We finally did arrive at the “camp site” on an entrance channel off of Long Island Sound and planted the beer in the water to keep it cool. As we finished putting it in nature’s cooler, we saw a large tugboat under a full head of steam, plowing up ocean sized rollers as it approached the channel. We quickly jumped in the water to surf those big rollers. Our drink-out was starting off with a whole lot of fun written all over it! But not so fast! When the rollers had dissipated and the Tugboat slowed down to make it’s landing, our thoughts turned to opening a brew but we discovered that the rollers had washed our beer into the channel and all 24 cans were gone. We launched a Search and Recovery Operation but never found even one. Now we had to deal with the thought of camping all night without any beer.

We lit a campfire and began to tell campfire stories. The real scary kind like the hatchet murderer on Scudder Ave. who was never found. Vegetation in that sand environment was just dead trees with no leaves and Pete’s naturally deep-set eyes by the flickering fire light became the marquee for his horror tale. Each of us took our turn in relaying stories like the “hook man” and tales of escapees from the nut-house. We all scared the Hell out of ourselves, and nobody slept that night…..at all. There seems to be a thrill of some kind for kids of that age to dabble in the subject of horror and that night was more memorable than if our beer had not been washed away.

Pete had an artistic flare and he expressed it by making airbrush “weirdo tee shirts”. He made me several and as I remember, one of his favorite characters was that of “Hiram”. This character rode in a ‘32 Ford roadster with a ridiculously large engine from which he would cook a hot dog on the exhaust manifold as he drove. Hiram also had a hypodermic needle sticking out of his head. I understand Pete used his talent to become a commercial artist.

We remained friends for some time, well into 1963 but the natural effect of new interests became reality. For me, it was the young ladies. It always seemed to be a deal breaker for old friends. My interest in one particular young lady could be construed as tunnel vision and I saw her to the exclusion of just about everyone. In time, Pete went one way and I another, normal attrition to be expected with growing up. I did talk to him on the phone in year 2000 and he was tentatively making plans to come to a reunion in St. Augustine, but he had to beg off due to family constraints. I’m sorry that I didn’t get to see him, but I’m sure glad I got to talk to him. To Pete, I dedicate this little slice of life from the early 60’s. Sail on, old friend!

                            I Like Ike

For years, we had Basset hounds stating with Katie, then Homer, Beethoven and finally, Sir George. At one point we had all four at the same time. Bassets are lovable little creatures but stubborn and not especially bright. In time, they would all pass and the last was Sir George whom I nick-named “Pucky”, a nod to his huge paws that mimicked hockey pucks. After my stroke of 2007, when I first returned home from the hospital, I was unable to walk but with rehab work, I was soon able to take them on short jaunts by leash. By 2009, sadly, they had passed on and we were “dogless” for the first time in seventeen years. We would remain so until 2011 when Ike would make his debut.

To discourage becoming sedentary, we decided it would be a good idea for my health to get another dog that would require regular walking, one that would force me off the couch and onto the pavement. We visited S.A.F.E (an acronym for Save Animals from Euthanization) with the thought of a lightweight dog that would be of manageable size. They presented “Ike” a mixed breed at 70 lbs., three years old, and housebroken, about 50 lbs. heavier than we had been considering. We promptly took him home.

He adapted well with us, but that was not necessarily the case with other people. He taught us that he had a strong disliking for kids on skateboards, UPS, Fed Ex, USPS, garbage men, fat people, black people, brown people, sloppy people, rednecks, Amazon delivery men vans of all types and my brother. We’re really not sure, but we think he may have a questionable history with some or most of the above.

Now, Ike at fourteen years takes daily two-mile walks at “The Canopy”, a paved walking trail through the woods where he meets all of his new-found friends who fawn over him and call him “Old Grampa”.  He has also become a celebrity here at Grand Ravine, where we live. Ike has done a wonderful job in filling a void for us physically and emotionally. While it is true that we have provided for him a “forever home”, he has earned his place in our family. It’s as true today as it was in 1956, I Like Ike!

 

The Legend of Soo Nippi

Steve & Dave Bruyn with Soo Nippi and Figaro at Twin Lakes, Connecticut (1950)

Seventy plus years after the fact, the Legend of Sue Nippi still haunts me. It all started around 1948 or so when my maternal grandmother stayed at the western New Hampshire resort of Lake Sunapee, a vacation spot for those who sought escape from the hustle and bustle of urban life. Imagine the setting of the movie “Dirty Dancing” and the legend of the indigenous tribe, the Algonquin Indians who once inhabited this area, naming it Soo-Nipi, their phrase for “Wild Goose Waters”. The word Soo-Nipi here, has ironic significance but more on that later.

That summer, while Gramma was enjoying her frolic, I was a budding young boy of about two, just learning to hone my skills at walking and talking. Ma, as we called her brought me back a souvenir of her vacation in the form of a small black, fuzzy, stuffed dog. A cute little fellow, just the right size for a two-year old, and we quickly bonded. I was told that this little critter came from Lake Sunapee and that I might name him “Sunapee”. At that tender age, my diction had yet to develop, and I called him “Soo Nippi”. The name stuck and my new pal accompanied me nearly everywhere. The irony is that the name Soo Nippi was nothing more than toddler-speak, but in actuality, the Algonquins picked the name long before I did.

As time passed, Soo Nippi became my sidekick as adventures unfolded before me in life. Some two years later, our family took a vacation trip to Twin Lakes, Connecticut, Soo Nippi in tow. By now, I was four and brother, Steve, seven. Under the watchful eye of Mom & Dad, we did a little rowing and “swimming”, Soo Nippi by my side. What I couldn’t have imagined on that trip was how dark things would soon turn.

When the vacation was over, and we began our rural ride home in the family Hudson, I took my assigned seat behind the driver (that would have been Dad). In those days, there were no seat belts or air conditioning. Clouds of cigarette smoke billowed from the front seat, and we opened all the windows for fresh air. I decided that Soo Nippi could use a gulp of fresh air too, so I held him out the window as we breezed along that country road. Oh, that country road. I had not yet learned about wind resistance and had no idea that Soo Nippi would be force-ably ripped from my little hand.

And so it was, Soo and I had unexpectedly parted ways. I was horror-stricken and didn’t want to let Dad know as I was afraid, he’d be mad. I began to cry and shrunk down behind the front seat. Some miles later, Mom & Dad did a well-check and found me crying. When asked, I came clean and told them what had happened. Dad turned the car around and we back tracked for maybe 20 miles or so, but we never found Soo Nippi. It was a lesson in emotional loss, one of many that we as human beings suffer on the road of life. To stay grounded, I refer to the spirit of this vignette when someone else experiences great loss.  I think if most people reach down far enough, they will find their own point of reference to help them stay grounded. Food for thought………..